A Singular Purpose
by 4everdistracted
Summary: The battle at Khazad-dum robs the young dwarven prince of his family. The long road afterwards robs him of the rest. Dwalin/Thorin
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** A Singular Purpose

**Author:** foreverdistracted / 4everdistracted

**Fandom:** The Hobbit

**Summary:** The battle at Khazad-dum robs the young dwarven prince of his family. The long road afterwards robs him of the rest.

**Pairing:** Dwalin/Thorin

**Characters:** Dwalin, Thorin, Dis, Gandalf, a few members of Thorin's Company

**Notes:** I wanted to post this as one cohesive fic, but time (and/or my lack of organizational skills) was against me. Still going to try to aim for a story arc, but this is probably going to come across as disjointed sometimes. Also, a mithril shirt and a song from Thorin for my sleep-deprived beta.

* * *

"There's no helping it." Thorin released a heavy sigh. "We lost too many warriors."

"Aye. The trek won't be short." Balin rotated the map his way and pointed at the eastern route. There was still a smidge of blood on his forefinger. "We can only spare a handful. Once our folk are settled in the Iron Hills, then our warriors can hasten westward again and meet with the main camp, perhaps by Tharbad or Sarn Ford."

Thorin gave an absent-minded nod. Their main assemblage had turned into a crawling, straggling mess since they picked themselves up after the battle in Azanulbizar. The healthiest would have to be the ones to venture east if the journey was to be swift.

"Dwalin." His dear brother-in-arms looked up at him from where he was perusing the map with a vicious frown. "You have been silent. You think it unwise?"

Dwalin shrugged. "Dain sent word too late." He glanced at Balin, as if assessing if his words would cause conflict. "And he offers too little. We take great risk by sending a fifth of our people back through dangerous roads with naught but a handful of men."

"We've cleared the way well enough," Balin countered. "It'll take the orcs weeks before they dare venture to the surface again. Beyond that..."

"Beyond that," Dwalin supplied helpfully, "there is Greenwood."

Thorin felt his skin prickle with irritation. He could feel the weight of Balin's gaze on him before the older dwarf spoke, "King Thranduil gave us his word -"

Thorin grit his teeth. "Thranduil's word means _nothing_."

Uncomfortable silence fell within the tent. The flickering of torches cast wild shadows on the map.

Thorin rubbed a hand tiredly over his face. "Balin," he said, his voice slightly muffled, "I can entrust this mission to no one else but you."

Thorin dropped his hand in time to see Balin's resolute nod. "How many warriors am I allowed?"

He took a mental tally of their remaining forces. "Sixteen." An unbidden memory came, too fresh and recent. Orcs streaming like water from sunless depths. He could still hear the drums. "It is all we can afford. Perhaps five bowmen. I'll leave that to your discretion. At least take with you Oin, Karvi, and Arvi. Dwalin -"

"I'm staying here."

"Dwalin stays with you."

Thorin raised an eyebrow, amused despite the gravity of the situation. The two brothers had almost tripped over their own words with how quickly they interrupted. He dipped his head, relenting. "Dwalin stays with me."

A niggling doubt blossomed as he spoke the words. He could have commanded otherwise, and the brothers would have followed without further protest. But try as he might, as invaluable a fighter as Dwalin was, he could not imagine making this journey without his silent presence nearby.

Thorin was all too aware of the wisdom he did not have. But their king was dead, his father missing, and even their elders looked to him now for strength and guidance. _Just this once_, he promised himself. Dwalin paused at the tent's entrance and glanced back, as if sensing the direction his thoughts had taken, and gave him a wry smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, the payment asked for was unconventional. Those were the ones that took the most out of them, for other races were ever curious about Dwarven culture. It took very little for wondering glances to turn into demands, once they discovered how desperate these people were for the most basic of necessities.

The first of a long list had been borne of the tantrum of a human boy who could not have been more than seven years of age. The lord of the large human township had been ready to wave Thorin off with the agreement of metalwork and field labor as trade, but the young boy had begun to point at Thorin, then tug, and scream, and cry, and such was the raucous that the lord's wife came out to see what harm was befalling her son. There was much discussion amongst the three, and, eventually, the lord had called Thorin over to revise the trade agreement.

Thorin's return to their camp that day was met with a loaded hush from the rest of the dwarves. Dis had been the first to meet him, but her words choked in her throat while her arms encircled him in a tight embrace.

He managed to keep his words dismissive, though he hugged her back just as tightly. "It will grow back, Dis."

Behind her, he caught sight of Gloin's glistening eyes, and Thorin was afraid the dwarf would start to openly weep. But they merely remained wet, and, for that, he was grateful. "That was too much to give, Thorin."

"It was necessary." Extremely so, Thorin thought, for that township had been the first they'd come across in two weeks of crossing arid land, and their supplies were dangerously low. Some had already fallen ill. "And we need not expend much in return - they only ask for steel and iron work."

The crowd slowly broke up. Skilled blacksmiths went back to their pack mules for their tools, while the others began to set up their personal tents and the makeshift rotunda for communal necessities.

Thorin would normally be overseeing these, but his thoughts kept returning to the wind brushing over his cropped hair and how exposed his neck felt. His hand had risen earlier to brush back strands that were no longer there, and he'd felt a flare of anger caused by that simple, habitual gesture. He was not in the mood for pitying eyes.

"Gloin," he called after the departing dwarf, "you still have a spare set of tools?"

"Of course. What do you need?"

"Teach me," Thorin said, and followed him.

* * *

Thorin awoke to some fanfare outside of the tent he shared with Dis the next day. He rose with a grumble (noting that his dear sister had, once again, decided not to wake him at dawn even though he had expressly told her to do so), barely letting himself spare a thought for the missing weight of his hair, and concentrated instead on the unfamiliar ache in his biceps and shoulders. After a graceless stretch of his protesting muscles, he left his tent to find a shiny-headed Dwalin waving his axe threateningly at a crowd.

"All right, stop gawking!" Dwalin made a show of anchoring Umraz on the ground at his feet. "Move on, you layabouts! There's work to be done!"

The top of his bare head appeared bumpy and ragged, with the hair shaved completely off instead of the close crop that Thorin was now sporting. Dwalin hadn't noticed him yet and was self-consciously rubbing his hand back and forth over the uneven skin.

Thorin clapped a hand on Dwalin's shoulder. The other dwarf hid his surprise with a grunt and a glare, as if daring Thorin to say anything untoward about his new appearance.

"It suits you," Thorin said, at length, with a grateful smile and a tight throat. "But you did not have to go to such lengths for me."

Dwalin's response was loud and spirited. "Who's doing it for you?" he said, while shrugging off Thorin's hand. "This happens to be the latest fashion."

To that, Thorin laughed as he had not done so in months.


	3. Chapter 3

"Teach me."

Dwalin had lost count of the number of times Thorin had uttered those words, and it was always just that once for every new profession. He looked up from where he was arranging his hammers and chisels in his blacksmith's toolkit to watch Thorin walking off with Dori towards the open gates.

_Breadmaking, then._ He snorted and began packing away his bundle. It would be harvesting in the fields for him today. Just his luck, with the sun blazing at its peak overhead.

Thorin wasn't being choosy, but then, he could ill afford to be. Dwalin had had to assist in a number of odd jobs as well, but only with the grunt work. The more skilled artisans and craftsmen in their numbers kept hold of the reins. Thorin had no qualms about asking to be taught whatever required an extra pair of skilled hands. This was a new city, relatively small and peaceful, and the jobs available to them were more domestic than in previous settlements. There was a shortage of workers in their bakeries, of all places, and a festival was fast approaching.

Dwalin knew Thorin was a quick study, but exactly how quick, he never quite realized until recently. He was sorely reminded of the four times Balin had tried (and given up on) teaching him the intricacies of tanning and leatherwork. Yet another thing that Thorin had learned in the span of days, just last week.

Shame was rock solid in his gut, when he thought of how he just wanted Thorin to stop. There were things he desperately wanted to say:

"_This is beneath you."_

_"Your hands should be holding swords, not shovels."_

But doing so could only make things more difficult for his friend, so he seethed quietly.

They'd even had to dress him down so he looked more like the rest of the peasantry instead of noble-born, although his bearing and unconscious use of language often gave him away. Still, it was far better for him to be mistaken as some twice-removed cousin rather than a prince and survivor of Durin's line. The official story was that the royal family was given sanctuary in the Iron Hills, and the king and heir were slain at Azanulbizar.

Thorin wasn't even giving himself time to mourn, and learning these new professions made for excellent distractions. It was convenient that they also happened to be necessary.

Dwalin had to wonder how much more of himself his friend would give before he started to crack.

* * *

"Move over." Dwalin startled from the light doze he was _almost_ enjoying. It was testament to how tired he was that he hadn't even noticed Thorin's approach. He dutifully scooted around the tree, leaving enough room for the other dwarf to make himself comfortable in the shade. A brief, assessing glance revealed that Thorin's arms and the entire front of his tunic were dusted with flour, and while his friend looked exhausted, he didn't seem injured.

Thorin was in the process of settling down beside him when he closed his eyes again, hoping to recapture the blissful sleep that was almost within reach earlier. He roused when he felt a weight making itself comfortable on his sore thighs.

"'M sweaty," he grunted at the back of Thorin's head.

He felt the answering shrug. "Don't care."

Thorin sounded as tired as he felt. He moved around a bit, putting more of his weight against the tree and willing his legs to relax. He heard Thorin sigh.

He felt a little too aware of his surroundings now to slumber, but this was restful enough. A cooling breeze passed by and ruffled the strands of Thorin's hair, which, after a few weeks, had already grown an inch or two. His beard was another matter - it was bad enough that Dwarf beards were slow to grow, but Thorin's especially seemed to be taking its time.

Not that different from when they were younger, Dwalin remembered fondly, and when Thorin had been lightly teased for his bare face while his peers were proudly sporting thick stubbles.

"You smell like wet earth," Thorin murmured against his leg. Dwalin barely made out the words.

"Y'smell good enough to eat." That brought a weak laugh out of his friend, although Dwalin wasn't really trying to be funny. He'd been toiling under the unforgiving sun for several hours and had been too tired to hike back to their settlement for a proper bite. Thorin smelled like flour, cherries, and freshly-baked bread, and it was making his stomach churn.

He dusted off a large patch of white powder from Thorin's sleeve. After a pause, he hovered his hand near Thorin's head and asked, "Aye?"

For a brief second, he thought his friend might have fallen asleep - but Thorin eventually murmured an annoyed "of course" into his thigh. Dwalin ran his fingers through the short, white-speckled strands, dislodging sticky, wet flour and dusting off the rest.

That was one thing many of their generation had been ill-prepared for, as sheltered from the outside world as they had been in Erebor. Men thought little of touching other people's hair - or perhaps just theirs, in particular. Many of them seemed to think their added height gave them leeway to be bolder. A curious glance would often be followed by a reaching hand, though Dwalin was always quick to remind them that while they might be taller, his axe could still reach their necks.

Thorin and Dis, when they were out together, were often the brunt of such attention. The similarities between them were undeniable, and all three of them - Frerin, included, and Dwalin didn't let himself linger in that direction for too long - seemed to have been blessed with appearances that were considered attractive to both races. A few days back, a simple stroll towards the market had the siblings returning in foul temper, and Dis yelling at Dori to show her how to sew. "Hoods are in order," she simply said. Neither tight-lipped sibling would tell Dwalin what had happened.

"Does it feel strange?" he asked. Thorin's hair was as clean as it was going to get. He played with a few strands between thumb and forefinger - the ends were already starting to curl in that natural wave Thorin's hair had - before dropping his hand back to his side.

Dwalin waited, but Thorin remained silent. His thoughts wandered to his own head, for which he'd solicited help to keep the top bare and smooth. A month's earnings got him the services of Glosur, one among the very few tattoo artists in their ranks, with the promise of being taught the craft if Dwalin showed enough aptitude. Three gates were already skillfully drawn in. It would only take a few more nights for the rest to be completed.

"Feel naked," Thorin murmured. Dwalin had an odd moment where he was grasping for an appropriate context for what Thorin had just said until he remembered his earlier question.

"You're not." Dwalin felt out of his depth. "Too many clothes for that."

He didn't know if making light of it had been the right thing to do, but Thorin laughed politely anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

Their valuables slowly diminished. Dis kept a box tucked away in her rucksack, and in it were three sets of hair pieces made of white gold and crushed pearls. She had commissioned them herself from one of the finest jewellers in Erebor - one for their grandfather, and two for her brothers. Their father's went missing with him during the battle in Khazad-Dum, and two of them still had tiny stains of blood from when Dis removed them from her grandfather's and brother's lifeless, unseeing corpses. Thorin would not let her take them out, much less offer them to barter, and whenever she would suggest it during their most desperate days, he would opt to take another three overnight shifts at the forge rather than let her touch them.

Thorin nearly had no jewellery left. Three of his precious rings went into acquiring provisions and salted baskets designed to lengthen the longevity of their food supplies (and, secretly, a pair of travel sandals for Dis, for which he was both thanked and admonished). His beard clasps, made of pure gold inlaid with rubies, were traded for sixteen saddled ponies. Two emerald necklaces with detailed etchings of the symbol of the House of Durin were bartered for tents and blankets.

He kept one ring, crude in comparison to the others, which Frerin had made when he was younger and was experimenting with combining alloys at the castle forges. Behind their father's back, of course. It was dangerous work. "I know it doesn't look like it, but it's supposed to be Erebor," he had laughingly said. It had remained wrapped around Thorin's ring finger ever since.

His thoughts now went to the small box bundled in linen and placed at the bottom of Dis's saddlebag. It could afford to lose one set, perhaps, since he would have no use for his with his cut hair. He wasn't quite able to prevent the bitterness from showing in his tone, however. "What of trade?" he asked of the man standing in front of the closed gates, a step closer than the group that stood guard with iron pitchforks and wooden sticks. "We have precious jewels - "

"I am sorry. We don't get Dwarves 'round these parts," the Head Councillor (as the townsmen had called him) said. His expression spoke of some annoyance, as if Thorin was entirely to blame for this current awkward predicament. As if their need for the most basic of necessities was _inconveniencing_ him. "But some of us have had dealings with your folk. You will find little welcome here."

Thorin scowled. "I neither know nor care of the Dwarves you've encountered before, but _we_ of the Lonely Mountain are honorable. We work hard and -"

"Be that as it may, our comforts are few," he swiftly interjected. Thorin could hear Dwalin's faint growl at the interruption. "It would be best if you moved on. The harvests were meager, our trade caravans have yet to arrive, and we've little need for smithing."

"We can offer services other than smithing," Thorin persisted. His jaw felt stiff. His heart clenched at the effort it took to convince himself that he _wasn't_ begging. "If only for a few nights' rest away from the cold. Our children are much weakened from the day's heat."

And the number of sick among them grew slowly every day, but that was not something he could mention. They were in danger as it was from being run out of the area simply for being Dwarves, but there would be no tolerance for Dwarves housing sick numbers. Their healers claimed that the affliction spread through touch and only affected their race, but he could hardly use that as reason without it sounding like a frantic lie.

He felt despair settle like a lead weight in his stomach - he knew the answer from the man's face even before he spoke. "I am sorry, but we cannot help you."

Despite the polite words, Thorin was hard-pressed to recall a colder dismissal. He hid his clenched fists by folding his arms. "Then will you at least permit us to set up camp outside of your walls for tonight before we journey farther?"

He did _not_ look happy with the prospect, and, for a second, Thorin thought he would refuse them even this request. But despite the grumblings of the men around him, the Councillor said, "You may. Just be warned that these lands are harsh, and wild creatures come down from the mountainside at night."

Thorin said his thanks through gritted teeth. At his signal, Dwalin and the others withdrew to give word to the others. He turned to joined them, but paused when he caught the tail end of the conversation from the departing men.

"...probably murder us in the middle of the night."

"Don't worry. The cold'll get them if the animals don't."

* * *

The cold was dry and harsh, and permeated even Dwarven skin. It would not be so terrible if only the sick among them didn't number close to fifty. They made sure to build fires near the mounts and the animal pens, and kept the tents of the ill and the young aptly supplied with frost garbs and blankets.

The first deaths of the night, however, were not from the cold.

Some time close to midnight, he and Dis were awakened by a keen wailing nearby. They hastily put on their coats, grabbed their weapons, and headed out to find Dwalin and Dori already up and gathering men.

Dwalin grimly met his gaze. "Brall's and Jor's kids are missing."

Two of their trackers followed the children's trail under torchlight. Footsteps turned into torn clothes. Torn clothes, into drops of blood. The trail ended at the fringes of an old ruin close to the mountains, where bloody bones were all that was left for them to gather and take back to camp.

"Wild wargs," the tracker morosely said, after a moment's observation of the remains. Dwalin ordered the dwarves behind him to secure what they could in their cloaks.

Bile threatened to rise up in Thorin's throat. "We must hurry," he urged, for beyond the glare of his torch, he felt eyes in the dark.

Their return to camp was a rushed and unhappy affair. They were met with more grim news - within the hour that they had been gone, one of their own had perished from disease.

Thorin hadn't known Rhuk all that well, but the old dwarf had patiently taught him the basics of fastenings just a few weeks earlier. His wife hadn't survived the fire in Erebor, and his three sons had perished at Azanulbizar. He had worn the smile of someone who still found much to live for, and Thorin had found it rather infectious.

Dead, now. Under his watch.

_Later_, Thorin promised himself. He commanded all able-bodied men to ready their weapons and wait at the eastern and southern borders of the camp. Far to his right, he could see Dwalin and a handful of others creating makeshift spiked wooden fences. Midnight had come and gone, and, within a few hours, the night would be at its deepest black.

Hunger was a persistent bite in Thorin's stomach. He stood behind a mounted spear, sword and axe in hand, and let his gaze sweep across the lined up Dwarves at his sides. His men were robbed of both food and sleep, and among the ranks of those ready to fight, there were faces he recognized as having as much to do with warfare as Dwalin did with embroidery.

Yet their expressions remained determined. Unwavering. Thorin held no doubt that Brall's cries of anguish rang as loudly in their minds as they did in his. _"Arm the helpless, Thorin,"_ his grandfather had said to him, once. _"Give weapons to those who know the value of sacrifice."_

Howls began to echo from the dark. Thorin flexed his sword arm and rolled the hilt around in his palm. Though his enraged heart thrummed with memories of the small, bloody bones scattered on dead structures, it was Dwalin's rough voice beside him that said, "No more losses today."

_Mahal bless this dwarf_, Thorin thought, even as he yelled the battle cry of his forefathers and signalled the charge.

* * *

Dawn was breaking when one of them yelled of smoke in the far distance, hidden from view behind copses of oak and pinewood trees. He sent someone to scout ahead. The wargs continued to arrive in groups of eight to ten, though they had diminished in frequency for the past half hour, a small reprieve that at least allowed them to re-fortify some of their defenses.

"Human caravans at the eastern path!" the scout yelled from the distance. "Seven, two on fire and beyond salvaging!"

Thorin's breathing stuttered. He could feel dragon fire breathing down his face. He licked his lips and looked around at his tired warriors, who were picking off the few remaining wargs like pests. There was an odd moment when his eyes met Dwalin's across the field. Whatever it was that Dwalin saw on his face made his friend extremely wary.

He turned back to the waiting scout and yelled, "Are they able to defend?"

"Thorin..." Dwalin's tone held an edge of warning. He ignored it.

The scout shook his head. "They have few guards, most are dead."

"Well, we know what's distracting the wargs, then," Gloin dryly remarked. A few others gave exhausted, half-hearted laughs.

"Thorin." Dwalin had made his way quickly across and now laid a firm hand on his arm. He didn't even a blink when Thorin furiously shook it off. "They turned their backs on us - they _insulted_ us. Let them fend for themselves!"

Thorin gave him a dirty glare. His voice was almost an angry hiss, but he might as well have shouted with how the men around them fell silent. "Would you have us no better than Thranduil's ilk when we were in need?! They are _defenseless_, and we have the means to fight!"

Dwalin remained annoyingly nonplussed. "Then be _sensible_, aye? Our warriors are few. We cannot afford to lose any more."

_"Tell me, then, children of Durin: if our positions had been reversed, and a dragon had laid waste to our forest homes, would you have risked the lives of your men to aid us, knowing that it led to certain death?"_

_There was little time for Thror to answer. Thorin saw _red_. "Yes, curse you! A thousand times, yes!" The words were out of his mouth before he could even consider stifling them. He had been present when his grandfather and Thranduil had exchanged words of peace and support long before the dragon came. Of sacrifice and honor. And the word of Dwarves, once given, was etched in stone._

_"Thorin, you forget your place!" his father yelled, but his words barely pierced Thorin's attention. For as Thorin had spoken, his father had looked _ashamed_, and his grandfather had not looked so certain. _

_And Thranduil saw, as he did._

_"You are a fool, Thrainsson," Thranduil said to him. But the words held no heat, and his eyes held pity and regret._

It was a bitter memory, one that Thorin hated recalling. He had begged off from joining the meeting, but his father had insisted. Thranduil had specifically requested his presence.

Dwalin had not been there. But listening to his friend now, Thorin had never felt more alone. How could they differ so, disagree so, when they both had Erebor in their hearts?

Dwalin's expression softened a fraction, though his eyes looked no less resolute. He cursed under his breath and drew closer. "Don't look at me like that. I'll follow you to the ends of the earth. You know this, aye? But you ask me to set aside my pride, and I've lost enough as it is."

"We all have." He did know. He understood Dwalin's reasons, and he knew he was asking for a little too much this time. But Dwalin had let go of his arm and began sheathing his weapons anyway.

Perhaps it was seeing Dwalin capitulate that finally gave the others their voices back. All around him, protests arrived in tired, whinging tones, some even sounding close to anger:

"Thorin. You can't mean to -"

"They would have let us die out here -"

"We owe them nothing!"

"Enough!" The grumbling was slow to cease. "I only ask those of you willing and still with strength to come. I bear no ill-will to those who are able and yet choose to stay."

That seemed to appease most. In the end, more than half of the men volunteered, while those who stayed seemed to mostly do so out of necessity.

With a grateful nod to those gathered around him, he gestured onward and broke into a run, his oak shield strapped and ready around his wrist. The smoke past the trees had gotten thicker during the brief pause, and the sounds of several wargs howling at once echoed in the air.

"No more losses?" he whispered wryly to Dwalin, who had taken up his customary position by his side. Ahead, past the line of trees, several human bodies lay broken and half-consumed on the forest floor. Four more caravans remained intact, housing humans - a few women and children among them - still desperately clinging to what little line of defense they had at their disposal.

Dwalin's answering grin was a little crazed around the edges. Just as Thorin liked it. "'Twas before you kept pushing your luck!"

Then the wargs charged at them, and there was nothing but more battle for the next two hours.

* * *

When Thorin next met with the Head Councillor, it was with a little more fanfare than before, and in a far more welcoming atmosphere. They were actually allowed past the town gates, for one.

"If you must pay us, let it be with food and shelter," Thorin was quick to say. At the slightest display of hesitation, he hastily added, "Please. Our fighters are wounded and tired."

"Our inns really _are_ full," the Councillor said, sheepishly this time. "They house displaced families from a recent flooding. But there are land owners who have volunteered their space. Their children and relatives were part of the caravan you've helped." He gestured to the many boxes and parcels being unloaded from the surviving caravans. "And of course, what food we have from trade is yours. We cannot thank you enough."

"I still say we should have let them be," Dwalin would mutter later after taking a long, deep swig from his mug of ale, safe and blanketed in warmth within the town's largest pub.

"Perhaps," Thorin answered with a sigh. He had been over this with three different people already. "I do not claim that my decision was right. Merely that it was the one I could live with."

"You," Dori said, from a table away (where he had apparently been shamelessly eavesdropping), "are _no_ Thror, my King."

Though Dori's words were slurred, a sure sign that he was well into seven tankards of alcohol, they still stung. Thorin bit his lower lip and forced his hands to loosen their death grip on his mug. A metal-clad hand firmly clasped his arm, and he looked up into Dwalin's laughing eyes. "He means to _praise_." An implied "you idiot" hovered somewhere in there, remaining unsaid in all but Dwalin's expression.

Thorin frowned. He looked back over his shoulder and saw Dori nodding vigorously.

There were still things Thorin could take offense with from what he'd said - it pained him to think that his people needed reminding how Thror had been a _great_ bloody king, and that his actions later had been borne of sickness - but he was tired, and Dori looked far too happy to pick a fight with at the moment. He raised his mug reluctantly and gave a pained smile.

He refused to feel embarrassed at the abject relief he felt when Dwalin's grip on his arm slid across his shoulder and pulled him into a quick half-hug, and a noisy, wet kiss was pressed solidly onto his temple.

Of all the things Dwalin could be proud of that day, him not making a drunk Dori feel bad had been...well. Nowhere near the top.


	5. Chapter 5

It had only been a matter of time before Thorin was made aware of the reason behind Dis's absences and her early morning walks. Dwalin merely wished he had been nowhere near the two when the explosion occurred.

"A 'suitor'?!" Thorin spat out the word as if it were rotten wheat. "One that would flee from sight like a filthy little criminal-"

"I told him to leave," Dis interrupted, her voice hard. That did seem to be the case, as when both he and Thorin rounded the corner on their way to check on the livestock, the dwarf Dis had been speaking to didn't leave so much as get repeatedly shoved by the panicking lass until he got a clue and reluctantly scampered off. "And I was right to do so. Stop raising your voice!"

"There is a protocol, a procedure to these things!" Thorin said, even louder than before. Dwalin growled - it was still early enough that only field workers were up and about, but any louder and Thorin's voice could rouse the dead. "Have you forgotten what our parents had arranged? There is still the matter of Dunar, Dain's cousin-"

"What of him? You know as well as I the true purpose behind that match. Do you think it will still be on offer now that we have no kingdom and no wealth to our names?" Dis exhaled a calming breath. "He is no Dunar, but he is my _choice_, brother."

"He is _nothing_!" Thorin roared, and his expression of anger was now mirrored on his younger sister. Terrific. Dwalin's fingers itched with the pure desire to bash their heads together. "You will cease this dalliance and-"

"_Dalliance_?!"

"-have him speak to me, or the next weapon I sharpen will have his name on it! Where are you going?! Dis!"

Dis had started stalking off before Thorin could finish his tirade. Rather than reply to him, she directed her angry stare at Dwalin instead and said, "Tell that loam-headed brother of mine that there's no reasoning with him when he's like this. And make sure he cools his head!"

Any further attempts Thorin made to demand Dis's return was met with a flounce and a generous view of her departing back. Dwalin pressed his hand firmly against Thorin's chest when the latter angrily lunged forward - one glance at the curled lip and the knitted brows, and he knew Dis was right. There was no talking to Thorin when he was like this.

Correct or not, Dis really should have known better than to let her last words be riddled with insults. Though perhaps she had and chose to ignore good sense anyway. Balin often joked that while the Fundins exhausted its cache of ill temper within one of two siblings, the line of Durin spread great amounts of it equally among all its children.

But Balin was not here, and, as the seconds flew by, Dwalin could feel Thorin's anger slowly shifting from Dis onto himself.

Dwalin grumbled under his breath. He'd never had his brother's talent for dousing tempers, and his friend and king looked ready to fight him tooth and claw if he attempted any such thing now. Blue eyes flashed, as if daring him to say anything remotely placating.

He withdrew his hand and began treading the path they'd meant to travel earlier. When he heard no one following, he glanced back at Thorin's resolute gaze and said, "Well? There's work to be done."

Thorin seemed to be weighing something in his head. Dwalin waited him out, and was rewarded with a defeated sigh and a begrudged stomping towards the road leading to the animal barns. "Piss-poor job of calming me down, this," he muttered as he passed by.

Dwalin couldn't really argue with that. He had little by way of explanation when Gloin looked absolutely bewildered as to why Thorin was barking out his compliments and glaring at everything that was in its rightful order. It took all of morning and half of lunch before he seemed to lose steam, and Dwalin had a feeling he had Dori's turn in the kitchens to thank for that. The two local inns had agreed to let the dwarves commandeer their large kitchens once a day, if they would supply them in turn with wild game, something that was at least plentiful in these parts.

Dwalin was still busy tearing into his spicy pheasant when Thorin set aside his cleaned plate and turned to face him. "You knew," he simply said, and glared accusingly.

It hadn't been a question. Dwalin shrugged one shoulder and said, "Saw him holding her hand two months ago. She swore me to secrecy." The plea had been more for Thorin's sake than her own, Dwalin recalled, as she'd been firmly convinced that her brother would take this as nothing but ill news - something he didn't need on top of everything else. He took a brief look at Thorin's face and carefully added, "He's a good sort. Hard-working. He'd not take advantage of her."

Dwalin thought the opposite was probably more likely, but he firmly kept that thought to himself. Thorin looked far from appeased. It was a few more bites into Dwalin's meal before he spoke again, "Could he not have at least announced his intentions formally to me?"

"Would it have done him any good?" Dwalin asked, with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course not, but it is the _principle_ of the matter!" Thorin huffed and pushed himself away from the table. "Remind our hunters that we have only a few days to refill our salt baskets. I'll meet you later before the caravans set off."

Dwalin wondered briefly if Thorin was of sound enough temperament to go searching for his sister, but then remembered, with much chagrin, just how utterly _useful_ he'd been earlier. Well, he still had half a plate to wolf down - best to let them work it out between themselves.

* * *

Dis was back in the room they shared, sitting at the head of her bed and poring through several pieces of parchment she'd laid on the mattress. Inventory, it looked like. She waited until he'd seated himself on his own bed before turning to give him an assessing look.

"I'm not talking to you if you're still angry," she slowly said.

Thorin sighed. "Could you not have waited until..."

"Until what?" Dis curtly interrupted. "Until we return to Erebor?"

"Perhaps," Thorin replied, tired, and watched as the sarcasm melted from his sister's face. "Or until Father is found."

Pain that mirrored Thorin's own darkened Dis's eyes. "We are fools, the pair of us," she said, with a forced laugh.

It was curious, the sudden relief that he felt. With those few words, Thorin found a certainty he hadn't felt in ages, similar to the abject comfort he rediscovered when his back once again lay upon a soft mattress instead of a blanket-covered ground. Despite their shared losses, Dis still hoped, as he did.

"I kept him secret because I didn't wish for you to preside over the formalities, as Father would have," she continued, her eyes earnest. A corner of her lips lifted in a self-deprecating half-smile as she said, "You're not the only one who isn't ready to move on."

Thorin returned her smile. The gnawing guilt that had settled at the pit of his stomach since that morning eased. "So," he casually said, "does the _cur_ have a name?"

"His name is Halvar, Kalin's son." Thorin scoffed. Dis crossed the distance between their beds and settled behind him, her arms coming around his shoulders to wrap around his neck. He could feel her fond smile against his ear. "He has _some_ clout. He did formally present his suit to Father, a few years ago."

Thorin frowned. "I'd not heard." It must have been during one of his visits to the Iron Hills.

"I think everyone likes to pretend it never happened," Dis mused aloud. "His suit comprised of a modest sum, a _promise_ of a house, and a business yet to be inherited from an uncle. I'm sure you can imagine Father's reaction."

Thorin couldn't quite keep the sudden laughter from escaping. Not that he tried very hard. He felt a light slap on his arm. "Don't laugh! I wasn't very happy with Father after that."

Thorin hummed low in his throat. "_That_, I remember." It hadn't been long before the dragon came, then. He also remembered the way their father looked ready to throw something when he'd asked about the near-palpable tension during their family meals upon his return. _"Your sister would have the noble line of Durin living in hovels and hoarding sand instead of gold!"_ he'd groused, and Thorin had steered clear of the subject even well after sister and father were on speaking terms again. He placed his hand on his sister's wrist. "He treats you well?"

"He has been a rock at my side ever since we were driven from home."

"I suppose I must adapt to the idea of sharing your time with another." Dis's sudden chuckle had him tilting his head to the side with a puzzled frown. "What?"

The hug around his neck tightened. "Frerin and I have had to share you with _Dwalin_ since we were very little."

"It is not the same," Thorin grumbled.

Dis's laughter grew. Thorin secretly hoped its sound would not be as rare as it had been for the past year. "Don't lie, brother. It's not very attractive."

* * *

Note: Apologies for how long I'm taking to update this. RL and other fics have been taking up my time. Really sorry! The fic's going to get a bit darker after this (sexual themes, violence, etc.), apologies in advance if that's not something you wished to read. Will put up warnings at the beginning of the relevant chapters and change the fic's rating when appropriate.


End file.
